Can You Feel My Scars
by Anonymoustache
Summary: John and Sherlock's relationship is progressing well, and the consulting detective and his blogger are closer than ever. However, one day a mysterious man comes to stay at Baker Street, and John soon learns that there's more than one demon in Sherlock's past. Companion fic to Can You See My Pain. Established Johnlock.
1. An Unexpected Guest

"Sherlock, why is there a pair of ears in the microwave?"

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, staring intensely into a microscope. "Experiment."

John rolled his eyes. Of course, another experiment. "Couldn't you keep them somewhere else? Preferably not in the microwave?"

Sherlock didn't move. "No."

John sighed, aggravated. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock finally turned around and stared John right in the eyes. "John. The victim in the most recent case was found dead near a house that had been burned to the ground. However, there were no burn marks on the body. The only injury the autopsy found was that his eardrums had somehow been burned to the point that the man would not have been able to hear. I took a pair of typical human ears from Molly and I'm testing to see what temperature would be needed to burn away the eardrums." He turned back to the microscope. "They should be done in approximately one hour and twenty-four minutes."

John looked at him, exasperation showing on his face. "Right. So you have these ears in here to burn off the _eardrums_?" John went over and grabbed his and Sherlock's coats off the rack, pulling his on. "That's it. You need to get out for a little while."

Sherlock frowned as John pushed aside the microscope and threw the coat over his shoulders. "Jaaaaaaaaaawn!" he whined. "It's for a _case_!"

"And this…" John said, pushing the complaining consulting detective towards the front door, "…is for your mental health. And mine. And probably Mrs. Hudson's, as well. God knows the poor woman finds enough body parts in the deep freeze as it is, Sherlock." He opened it and propelled Sherlock towards the stairs. "Come on…we're going out. To the park, to Angelo's…anywhere, I don't care, as long as you're out and about like a normal human being for one day."

Sherlock brightened. "Anywhere?" he asked.

John started to nod, and then stopped, looking at Sherlock suspiciously. Finally, he figured it out. "No, Sherlock. We are _not_ spending our day at the morgue." He said firmly. "In fact, we're going to go have lunch somewhere. Together. Like normal people."

Sherlock frowned as he stepped out onto the pavement and muttered something.

John locked the door and turned to him. "What?"

Sherlock glared. "I said, BORING. Normal people are boring, John!"

John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and gave him a look of mock concern. "Sherlock. Did you just call me boring?"

Sherlock's lower lip went out in a pout. "No."

John raised an eyebrow playfully. "But I'm a normal person. I think you just insulted me, Sherlock!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and spoke in his most obvious voice. "John. You are _not_ a normal person."

John assumed a look of thoughtfulness. "I don't know whether to be insulted or gratified."

Sherlock looked deep into John's eyes. "John, you are beautiful and wonderful and simply amazing. They don't make normal people like you. That's why I love you."

John gulped. "Wow. Uh…thanks, Sherlock. That's…wow. That might be the first time you openly complimented me."

Sherlock grinned. "But I'm still putting ears in the microwave."

John groaned. "I should have known that."

Hand in hand, the consulting detective and his soldier blogger walked down the pavement happily, looking forward to a day of possible normality. They had no idea that this would be the second wave in a series of incidents that tested their relationship to the extreme.

…

Later that evening, John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street laughing. The dinner at Angelo's had been supreme, and John had actually requested a candle for the table this time.

"Sherlock, this night…this day, actually…it's been great." John said, clutching Sherlock's hand with one of his and opening the door with the other. "I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate this…your leaving the experiments to have some fun with me."

Sherlock grinned. "Even though it was you who forced me, John. And I…return the sentiment, as well. It was 'fun', as you so banally put it."

John mock glared at him. "I love you too, you daft git."

Suddenly, John found himself pinned against the stair wall, with Sherlock kissing the life out of him. John warmed up quickly, exploring Sherlock's lips with his tongue.

Mrs. Hudson met them on the stairs, coming down from their flat. "Oh, boys, I thought you should know that…"

Sherlock broke away from John to glare at the old landlady. "Oh, do shut up, Mrs. Hudson, we're a bit busy."

Mrs. Hudson looked distressed. "Yes, Sherlock, so I see, but you really should know that…"

John turned to her. "Mrs. Hudson? Three's a bit of a crowd when it comes to this kind of thing…would you mind if we just talked with you later? I think we're just going to head up to the flat and…" John gestured vaguely towards the stairs, a bit shell-shocked by Sherlock's daring. Sherlock took John's hand and they began to climb.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, frustrated. "Yes, dearie, I understand, but if you're heading up there I think I should mention that…"

Sherlock opened the door to the flat with one hand and pulled John in with him. "Good night, Mrs. Hudson!" He shouted, and the boys disappeared into the flat.

Oh well, Mrs. Hudson thought. They would find out soon enough.

Inside the flat, Sherlock pressed John against the wall. "Now where were we, Dr. Watson?" he purred in a seductive voice.

They both heard a low cough, and John's eyes widened as he got a glimpse over Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, you might want to turn around." John said in a low voice.

Sherlock slowly turned to find himself face to face with a tall, dark, imposing man. The man scowled at Sherlock. "Still breaking the rules, I see, Sherrinford."

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Sherrinford?" he whispered.

"Tell you later." Sherlock mouthed, and turned to the man. "As always, sir."

Sir? Who was this man, wondered John, who commanded so much respect from Sherlock?

"I'm not impressed, Sherrinford. A Holmes should know better than to get involved with anyone else."

John's eyebrows went up even higher. What was this about?

The man's chin lifted. "I expect better of you, Sherrinford."

Sherlock looked at John. His eyes seemed to be speaking an apology. He turned back to the man, and his next words left John in a complete state of shock.

"I'm sorry, Father."


	2. An Awkward Conversation

"_What_?"

Sherlock turned so that he was facing his father and John. His face was paler than John had ever seen it and his hands were shaking ever so slightly. "Father, this is Dr. John Watson, my…flatmate." He said in a monotone voice. He looked towards John, who looked very bemused. "John, this is my father, Siger Holmes."

John stepped forward. It would be advisable to at least make a good impression, if this powerful-looking man was anything like Sherlock. "Good evening, sir. It's nice to meet you." He stuck out his hand for the man to shake.

Siger did not take the offered hand, instead turning to Sherlock. "I've come to stay for a few weeks while they repair the manor."

Sherlock, for once, looked confused. John would have reminded himself to savor the moment, had it not been for the seriousness of the situation. "What happened to it, Father?"

Siger glared down at him. "It is not your place to ask questions as such, Sherrinford."

Sherlock looked meekly down at the floor. John was now very, very confused, and, if he was honest, a little concerned. He decided to take hold of the situation for now. "Sir, there's a spare bedroom upstairs that you can have…I'll just get some extra sheets from Mrs. Hudson…"

John made for the door, watching Sherlock the whole way. The consulting detective's eyes begged him not to go, but John thought it best if the two had time to catch up without him hanging around like a third wheel. Maybe Siger was nicer when they were alone, John thought.

As John walked down the stairs, Sherlock turned to his father. "Why are you here? I mean, really, Father, nothing could possibly have happened to the manor."

Siger's eyes were cold. "And why do you say that, boy?"

Sherlock winced at the title. It made him feel slightly insignificant. "If anything had happened to the manor, Mother would with you. And you both would be at Mycroft's house, not my flat. However, you're _not_ at Mycroft's and Mother is _not_ with you, therefore I conclude that Mother kicked you out; finally, I might add, she's been angry with you for years; and that you've come here because Mycroft would not take you in if he knew that Mother had kicked you out."

Siger drew back his hand and slapped Sherlock hard across the face, sending him sprawling to the floor. "You will not talk back to me like that, boy. When I say the manor has been damaged, it has been damaged, and you will _not_ question me. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded carefully, nursing his purpling cheek. "Y-yes, Father."

Siger turned away and walked over to sit down in a chair (John's chair, Sherlock thought indignantly, how dare he sit in John's chair?). He gestured to the chair opposite him, and Sherlock stood up and staggered over to the chair, sitting down with a dull _thunk_. Siger cleared his throat. "Now, Sherrinford, who is this _John_?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nobody," he muttered, "just my flatmate."

Siger growled low. "Don't lie to me, boy."

Sherlock raised his head arrogantly. "Fine, Father. He is my partner."

Siger glared coldly. "That's what I thought." He crossed his legs and leaned towards Sherlock. "What was the last thing I said to you before you left for university, Sherrinford?"

Sherlock looked at the floor. "That I was a freak and didn't deserve anyone."

Siger nodded, satisfied. "Exactly. Now, you are still just as freakish as before; you just demonstrated that a moment ago." He looked around the flat with an air of distaste. "If I am to stay here, you are to break off all romantic connections you have with this 'John Watson' fellow. Understood?"

Sherlock looked up, pain in his eyes. "Father, I…I can't do that! He's…he's everything." He whispered the last part, almost ashamed of himself for caring so much.

Siger curled his lip and abruptly changed the subject. "Do you remember your childhood, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded miserably. "Yes, Father. In vivid, graphic memory."

Siger nodded, pleased. "So you remember every time you defied me, what occurred?"

Sherlock continued to nod, wishing he and John had never come back to the flat that evening. "Yes, Father."

Siger glared at him. "You will cut off all romantic and friendship ties with this John Watson from this point on. Understood?"

Sherlock stared out the window across the room, wishing he could be anywhere but here at this moment. A small tear rolled down his cheek as he spoke the words he never thought he would have to say again.

"Yes, Father."

...

John finished making the bed in his old room, Siger Holmes watching from the doorway. "Here you are, sir. Have a good night's sleep."

Siger walked in casually and stood imperiously by the bedframe. "And where exactly do _you _intend to sleep, Dr. Watson?" he asked in a dangerous voice.

John gulped. There was something about this man that just gave him shivers in his spine. He decided it would be best to blatantly lie and hope that Sherlock hadn't inherited his powers of deduction from his father. "On the couch, sir."

Siger nodded imperiously. "Good." he sat down on the bed and began to unbutton his shirt.

John quickly left the room, not wanting to see any more of Siger Holmes than he already had to.

He headed to Sherlock's room, knowing Sherlock would be waiting for him and hopefully already undressed. He opened the door quietly and shut it behind him, then turned around to find…

Nothing.

Sherlock wasn't in their room. Where was he, then, wondered John? He shrugged and, grabbing his pyjamas, headed for the bathroom to take a quick shower.

….

Sherlock shut the door to the bathroom and slid down the wall near the toilet, putting his head in his hands. Silent tears began to drip from his eyelashes. He never thought he'd have to hear that voice, that awful, imperious voice, again in his lifetime. Everyone thought that Jim Moriarty was Sherlock's arch enemy…no one stopped to consider that it might be someone completely different. Someone like Siger Holmes.

His hand unconsciously rubbed at his chest, at the space between his nipples where a single word was carved. The hand traveled down, all around his body, ghosting over his old scars. There was one long knife scar on his thigh from when Father had gotten overzealous with his punishment. Several small scars up and down his arms spoke also of Siger's hunting knife…but when they had seen them at school, they had put it down to self-harm, and the other children avoided him. There were several burn marks and scars up and down his legs, part of why he didn't ever wear shorts, not even in the summer heat. Whip lashings covered his pale back, mutilating the perfect alabaster skin.

Thank god John was so gullible sometimes, Sherlock thought as he dried his face and pulled off his trousers in preparation for a long, hot shower. When John had first seen the scars on his legs and the particularly long one on his thigh, the army doctor had panicked. However, Sherlock was an experienced liar (one had to be, when one's parent was abusive) and put it down to bad experiments and dangerous cases. And John had certainly been understanding about the shirt-never-comes-off rule. It was strange, Sherlock mused as he stepped out of his pants, that John was like that. He had told John that he just wasn't comfortable with his chest exposed, and John had taken it, hook, line, and sinker. Good thing, too, Sherlock thought as he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off his bony shoulders, for he would never had been able to explain the single word carved just above his ribs.

He reached over and turned on the shower, and looked at himself in the mirror. He hated to see himself naked in the mirror. His pale alabaster skin made all the faded red scars stand out, light scarlet against the stark white. He turned away, and suddenly heard movement outside the bathroom door, realizing that he hadn't locked it. Stupid, stupid Sherlock, he thought, as the door opened. He closed his eyes, waiting for his father to begin the beating he had undoubtedly come here to inflict.

However, no punches, no knives, no anything was incoming, except a voice, John's voice, saying a single, astonished word.

"_Sherlock_?"


	3. A Stunning Realization

"Sherlock, what…what is this?"

John's mouth gaped as he pointed to the single word carved in the middle of Sherlock's chest. Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror, hating what he saw, what John had just seen.

_Freak. _

There it was, in faded red lines that were still visible to any eye. John looked from his chest, to his face, and to his eyes. Sherlock saw sympathy there, and lowered his head so John couldn't see the hot tears of shame lining up under his lashes. John stepped forward, and Sherlock expected him to reach for the door, to close it and be free of this hateful burden he now shared with Sherlock. But instead, John once again completely surprised Sherlock. He reached out and drew Sherlock into his arms. "Oh, Sherlock." He said in a sad voice. "Why didn't you tell me? I'm so sorry, love…"

Sherlock stayed there, in John's arms, for some time, wishing the moment could never pass. But, it did, and he pulled away to see fire in John's eyes. "Who did this?" John asked in a low, angry voice.

Sherlock looked at the floor. What could he do? He could either tell John the truth and risk enraging his father…or he could blatantly lie to keep John safe from his father's wrath. The latter appealed more to his growing sense of love, and so for the first time since starting their relationship, Sherlock lied to John.

"A…a bully, once, at school." He said, full of shame, but knowing that this way, John was safe from the wrath of Siger Holmes.

John nodded sadly, not for a minute realizing that Sherlock was lying. "I was bullied too, Sherlock. It's nothing to be ashamed of." He thought for a minute, and then realized, "So was Donovan. Remember? You told us all about that. And you were very understanding." He leaned in and hugged Sherlock again. "So be understanding of yourself as well, okay?"

Sherlock nodded into John's shoulder. "Yes, John." He muttered through the soft wool of John's jumper. It was his favorite jumper of John's, he noticed for the first time. He nuzzled into it more deeply.

John chuckled, feeling Sherlock's face dig deeper into his shirt. "Want to go to bed now?"

Sherlock started to nod, then hesitated, remember Siger's warning.

"_If I am to stay here, you must cut off all romantic and friendly ties with John Watson_."

What was he supposed to do?

But then he remember something. A long time ago, when he and John had first been starting out on their relationship, Sherlock had been running down an icy alley after a criminal. They had caught the man (Sherlock remembered that he had been a wily one, taking all the paths Sherlock didn't expect) and were walking away from the scene when Sherlock began to slip. As he wheeled his arms, trying to halt his fall, he was sure that he was going to splat backwards onto the hard pavement. As he fell backwards, he tried to brace himself for the pain…but the pain never came, because he was caught by something soft and warm, something called John Watson.

"_It's okay, Sherlock. I'll never let you fall_."

Sherlock nodded at John. "Yes. Let's go to bed."

If Sherlock fell, John would catch him. If Siger found out that Sherlock had disobeyed him, he just hoped John would do the same.

…

John woke up to sunlight streaming in through their bedroom door from the living room, bathing him and Sherlock in golden light. He sighed and stretched luxuriously, pulling his arms carefully away from Sherlock's body.

He turned to look at the sleeping consulting detective. Sherlock looked much younger in his sleep; he could almost be in uni again. The alabaster skin of his chest was dotted with pockets of golden light from the sun. Sherlock mewed in his sleep, and turned over…

Which was when John Watson's world suddenly stopped moving.

Whip marks. Over and over and over…splaying across what once might have been a beautiful stretch of creamy, gorgeous skin. Thin red scars over stark white, mutilated skin barely covering pointed shoulders and spine. John held in his gasp, not wanting to wake Sherlock. He ghosted his fingers carefully over the pale scars. They had been made over time, not all at once…as though…as though he had been beaten all his childhood…

John really did gasp this time, causing Sherlock's eyes to fly open. "John?" Sherlock said inquisitively, and then realized what was causing John's eyes and mouth to gape so wide.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He had never meant for John to see this. During last night, that wonderful night, he had made sure that, at all times, his back was on the bed. He knew that, if John saw the scars, he would figure out fairly quickly that Sherlock hadn't just been bullied in his childhood; he had been abused.

Sherlock opened them again to see John's eyes, close to his, filled with tears. "Oh, god, Sherlock…why didn't you tell me before?" he carefully lifted a hand to gently caress Sherlock's cheek. "Was it your whole childhood? Did Mycroft know?"

Sherlock gulped, holding back his own tears. "It started when I was about five. And yes, Mycroft knew." He gave a hollow laugh. "He was the one who always patched me up when Father got…overzealous."

John reached over and pulled Sherlock into a fierce hug. "Never again, Sherlock. We'll kick him out; I'll call in Scotland Yard, if I have to, dammit!" he kissed Sherlock's cheek. "I promise, you never have to see him again, Sherlock. Not ever, if I can help it."

Sherlock leaned into John's warm arms. They would face this together, Sherlock thought. He should have told John the truth in the first place; because honestly, John was smarter than Sherlock gave him credit for. He was right, Sherlock thought happily, snuggling up to John's warmth; his blogger would always have his back.

John Watson would always catch him.


	4. A Mutual Understanding

John woke up slowly that morning. He and Sherlock were tightly wrapped around each other, so close that John could barely tell which body parts were his. John gently untangled himself from Sherlock, only to have the consulting roll forward and grip him tighter. John couldn't help but laugh.

"C'mon, Sherlock," he said, "I have to go to the clinic today."

Sherlock hugged him even tighter than before. "Don't go…" he muttered, "What will I do?"

John thought for a moment. What did Sherlock mean? And then he remembered everything that had happened. He sighed and sat back down. "Sherlock…" he said, and hesitated. He had dealt with abuse victims before, at the clinic, and he knew that every single psychiatrist he had met and book he had read said to get the victim out as soon as possible. He made up his mind. "You're going to come with me and I'll drop you off at the morgue, and you can spend the day dissecting things, okay?" And, he added to himself, while Sherlock was busy slicing up fingers, he would stop by Scotland Yard after work and have a private chat with Greg about getting Siger out of Baker Street.

Sherlock sat straight up, his eyes bright. "Really?"

John chuckled. "Jesus, Sherlock, don't look so excited about chopping up cadavers. You're like a morbid kid at Christmas."

Sherlock looked happier than John had seen him in a long time. "But John…it's the _morgue_!"

John rolled his eyes. "Come on, then. Get dressed."

The happiness suddenly drained from Sherlock's eyes. "What about…Father?" he said, dropping the last word to a whisper.

John shook his head. "Don't worry. I'll take care of Siger Holmes." he said in a deadly voice. Sherlock could have cried because of John's devotion…but Sherlock Holmes didn't cry, no sir. Instead, he grinned.

John headed towards the bedroom door. "See you in a bit, then. Get ready quick; I don't want to be late again."

He went to the kitchen to make some tea and toast and hopefully to even get Sherlock to eat a little bit.

Sherlock sighed and slid out of the covers. He had been wanting to go to the morgue for some time now; those ears hadn't quite turned out like he thought, and he was desperate for another pair to try again. He pulled on a crisp white shirt and black trousers, folded his suit jacket carefully over his arm, and headed for the door.

…

The cab ride to Bart's was full of uncomfortable silence. John didn't really know what to say, and Sherlock…Sherlock was starting to feel ashamed of himself again.

Finally, John broke the ice. "You said…that Mycroft knew. That he was the one who always patched you up. Why didn't he ever do anything about it?"

Sherlock shook his head, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than John had ever heard it. "My father…is not an easy man to confront. Mycroft only ever said anything to him once…he still has the scars."

John looked incredulously at him. "Mycroft was beaten too?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled a wry grin. "Oh, no. Only that once, just for interfering with my own…punishment. Mycroft was the 'golden boy' of our family, so to speak…he was the one who everyone knew would go far, and I…" Sherlock trailed off, staring at nothing.

"You what?" John prompted gently.

Sherlock gave a tiny shake of his head. "No one expected much from me. I was the 'freakish' child who liked to experiment on dead cats." He smiled, but it was hollow, with no real cheer behind it. "I still am, to him."

John shook his head and picked up Sherlock's hand in his own. "To him, yeah. But don't let him get you, Lock. What he thinks doesn't matter."

Sherlock looked up miserably. "You don't understand."

John stilled. What did he mean?

Sherlock abruptly changed topics. "Do you love your parents, John?"

John thought for a minute. "Well, yes, I suppose I do, Sherlock. They're my parents, after all."

"And do they love you back?"

John answered, this time without hesitation. "Yes. Very much."

Sherlock nodded. "Good. Now think about Harriet. Do your parents love _her_?"

John shook his head regretfully. "Not particularly. They were never really too chuffed with Harry…what with the alcohol abuse and her sexuality and all. She's like the black sheep of our family."

Sherlock nodded again. "And has that been…difficult for her?"

He frowned. "Well, yeah, but…hang on, are you saying…Sherlock, Harry was never abused. Not…not like you."

"Well, no. Of course not. But you get the general idea, John." Sherlock said calmly. "Often, it's very difficult for the second of two children in families. Harriet, me…and though I really do hate to say it, Anderson…"

John raised his eyebrows. "How do you know _that_?"

Sherlock sighed. "It's elementary, John. The smudges on his coat sleeves, his second-rate London flat, and his affair with Donovan tell us as much." He shook his head, starting to get frustrated. "But that's beside the point! Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

John thought for a minute, a bemused look on his face, and finally shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, Sherlock…I guess I'm just not very bright."

Sherlock sighed and looked regretfully at the floor. "No, John, you're very bright. One of the brightest people I've met; which is saying something, because everyone I know is an idiot. I'm just not explaining it well." John almost wanted to cherish the moment (Sherlock, admitting he wasn't explaining something very well?) if it hadn't been for the gravity of the situation.

Sherlock sighed again, deeper and more resigned. "What I was trying to explain to you through example is that what many second children want above all is the approval of their parents. That's what makes the situation with father so difficult. Children, as I'm sure you know, set much store by what they hear their parents saying. If a child who has already weathered setbacks purely by their status hears their father telling them they are worthless and beating them, how do you think that child will react?"

John sat, dumbfounded by what he had just heard. "Okay, so you're saying that it's hard to ignore your father's words because as a child that was all you heard and it hurt too much to forget?"

Sherlock sighed in relief. "Yes, John. Good job."

John nodded. "Right. I think I understand now." He leaned forward. "So what can I do?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "I need you to…remind me, every once in a while."

John raised an eyebrow. "Remind you? What about?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Remind me that I have friends who care about me and an amazing partner who loves me. Just…remind me of it, so I don't forget."

John's eyes softened. "Of course, Sherlock. I love you very much." He said in a soft voice.

Sherlock smiled, one of his just-for-John smiles. "Thank you, John."

John leaned back in the seat, smiling. He could have sworn he heard a small, un-Sherlock-like voice say, 'I love you, too'.


	5. A Selfish Brother

Sherlock watched the cab pull away from him. John waved at him through the back window, and Sherlock gave him one of his just-for-John smiles. Everything was going to be all right, he thought.

That was, until another car pulled up beside him and his brother stepped out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded his head. "Sherlock."

Sherlock tilted his head, an expression of mocking disgust on his face. "How's the _diet_?"

Mycroft gave him an icy glare. "We are not here to talk about my eating habits, Sherlock."

Sherlock put on his signature bored look. "Then why the hell are you standing here, wasting my valuable time?"

His brother sucked in a low breath and raised his head, trying to sustain his look of impenetrable calm. "You know exactly why I'm here." He looked intensely at Sherlock.

A momentary look of panic and shame crossed Sherlock's face, but he overcame it quickly with the same bored look as before. "How dull."

Mycroft said nothing for several seconds, and then put a fake cheery smile on his face. "Why don't we go and have lunch somewhere, dear brother? We can…discuss the situation at hand."

Sherlock turned to Mycroft's car and plopped down on the seat inside it. "As long as it's not a _bakery_, my _dear_ brother." he said sarcastically, and slammed the door shut.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock would never grow up, he thought to himself.

…

Half an hour later, the two Holmes brothers were sitting at Angelo's, Mycroft enjoying a large plate of chicken alfredo. Sherlock stared into the distance, seemingly looking at nothing, pondering everything.

Mycroft abruptly began to speak. "Father?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes." He said tightly.

His brother nodded. "All right."

Sherlock looked incredulously at him. "Don't be a git, Mycroft. Get rid of him."

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "You know that I can't just 'get rid of him', Sherlock."

Sherlock leaned across the table, glaring at Mycroft ferociously. "Remember when I was a child, Mycroft? All those times that you spent reading medical encyclopedias, just so you could know what to do the next time Father beat me?" he raised his chin. "You always told me that when you grew up, you would finally be able to get rid of him so that I could be safe. You promised to protect me. Do you remember that promise, Mycroft?"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. "The fact of the matter is, Sherlock, that I cannot just 'put people away' on my own whims. You think that I can just get rid of anyone I want at anytime, don't you?" he sighed. "You, and everyone else, have never stopped to consider that I am not a dictator, not all-powerful. Deporting someone may seem like something I do every day, and it is, but it's not that easy."

Sherlock shook his head, exasperated, and leaned in towards his brother. "Oh, for God's sake, Mycroft. The man is a child abuser!"

Mycroft looked at him, deadly serious. "There is a committee, which deals with deportation and 'getting rid of people', as you so banally put it. While I am the head of it, I cannot solely make decisions based on my own personal needs and desires. The committee in it's entirety produces a vote on whether the person in question will be deported or locked away."

Sherlock looked at him, an echo of sadness in his gaze. "So it was all a lie. Every time you promised me that, it was a lie."

Mycroft looked down at his hands, wringing together in his lap. "Sherlock, believe me when I say that protecting you has always been the top priority on my list." His gaze came back up to his brother. "What you think should happen is just not how things work. Mass murderers, homicidal psychopaths, active terrorists; those are the kind of people the committee works with. Child abusers are not in their department, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

Sherlock took a ragged breath. "Then what am I supposed to do? Wait around until he decides to knife me again? Sit in the flat and let my fucking father punch me until I bleed?" Sherlock was almost yelling at the last sentence, and several fellow diners were looking their way.

Mycroft reached across the table and grabbed both Sherlock's hands in his own. "Sherlock, calm down. And don't swear or use slang, it's unbecoming and isn't like you." He squeezed Sherlock's hands gently. "Rest assured, I will take the details of the case against Father to that detective inspector friend of yours at the Yard…"

Sherlock yanked his hands out from under Mycroft's and stared at him coldly. "Once upon a time I thought you cared, Myc. But that was before I realized that all you care about is your precious position in the world." He stood up from the table, rising above Mycroft's line of vision, forcing him to look up into Sherlock's now upset face. "Once I was important to you. Now, according to you, caring is a disadvantage that you can't afford to have."

Sherlock strode away from the table, stopping where Angelo was standing near the bar. "Put his meal on my tab, Angelo." Mycroft heard Sherlock saying in a bitter voice. "It's the least I can do for _family_."

And with that, Sherlock left the restaurant, leaving only a tinkling of the door bell in his wake.

Mycroft stared out the window as his brother stormed across the street and hailed a cab, probably heading to the morgue. But, no…he watched his brother's mouth move, speaking to the driver. What was he saying? _221B Baker Street…_

Mycroft stood up abruptly from the table as the cab pulled away. And for the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes swore (quite loudly, in fact, as the diners of that day will tell you) and ran out the door of a restaurant without finishing his meal.


	6. An Irreparable Mistake

Sherlock burst through the door of Baker Street, breathing heavily, to see his father sitting in John's chair, drinking tea out of a dainty china mug.

"Ah, Sherrinford." The older man put the tea cup down on the small table in front of him and sat up ramrod straight.

"Father," Sherlock said stiffly, "I want you out of my flat. Now."

His father frowned. "One doesn't just kick one's own family out of their flat."

"You stopped being part of my family when you abused me," Sherlock growled in a low voice, "Now, I want you _out_."

Siger Holmes rose from his chair and walked carefully towards the door where Sherlock was standing. He stopped exactly one meter from his son, his eyes giving the young man a steely glare. "You will allow me to stay here as long as I desire, Sherrinford, or you will face the consequences."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "No, Father. This time, I am standing up. And I'm telling you that I want you gone by the time John gets home."

Siger moved quickly and suddenly Sherlock was lifted and pinned up against the wall, his father's strong hand wrapped around his thin, pale throat. Siger gave the detective a look of absolute contempt as he struggled against his father's wrath. "You were always such a worthless little bastard. Look at you!" Siger laughed. "Relying so heavily on another human being, being in _love_…" he spat the last word, as though it were poison.

His hand squeezed tighter. "You were a _mistake_, Sherrinford. Nothing but a mistake. Your mother and I had Mycroft…and then _you_ came along, and you ruined everything." He stopped for breath. "LOOK AT ME!" he screamed as Sherlock's tear-filled eyes traveled to the floor. "You were always such a freak…you still are, in fact! You dissect bodies and solve crimes for _fun_, and the people who work with you don't even _like_ you!" he shook the detective's body fiercely, almost entirely cutting off his air supply. Sherlock's hands scrabbled at his father's, trying to retain the right to breathe. Siger looked down at him, his face red, eyes angry. "You're worthless, boy."

And with that Siger dashed Sherlock to the ground.

The consulting detective backed up quickly, towards the kitchen, massaging his aching throat as he went. Siger followed him, causing Sherlock to scoot backwards as quickly as he could. Finally, the man's back hit the door of one of the cupboard; but still, Sherlock tried to scramble back, as if he could disappear into the cupboard and be safe from the abusive man following him.

Siger put his foot down on Sherlock's stomach, pinning him securely to the floor. He pressed down, causing Sherlock to pull in a raspy breath. The consulting detective made a weak attempt to push the foot off of his abdomen, but Siger only shoved his heel further under the man's ribs, earning a pain-filled gasp from him.

"How could anyone love you, Sherrinford? Look at you; you're pathetic, you're egotistical, you're inhuman, you're friendless…" Siger yanked his foot away from the detective, disgust written on his face. "I can't even _touch_ you."

Sherlock struggled to sit up. "Not…true…" he rasped, trying to suck in oxygen through his damaged windpipe, "John…is my…friend. You're…you're jealous…aren't you, f-Father?"

Siger laughed coldly. "As I reminded you several times during your childhood, Sherlock, friends are not something you should want or need in life. Neither is love…or any emotion, for that matter." He attempted a fatherly look. "I was only trying to protect you, my boy."

Sherlock staggered to his feet, supporting his unsteady feet by gripping the edge of the counter. He was breathing in great, distressed gasps, and finally found the energy to speak. "_Protect_ me?" he spat, ignoring the burning pain in his throat. "You beat me every day of my childhood! No child should have to go through what I did. Never." He said, his voice wavering.

Siger sucked in a breath and stood up to his full height, which was several centimeters taller than Sherlock. "Are you _denying_ me, Sherrinford?" He asked in a dangerous voice.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Yes, Father. I am."

He could hear Siger's hand whistling through the air before it finally connected with his face, knocking him straight to the floor. After that, it all just blurred together; the beatings, the blood, the pain…

However, Sherlock would always remember how it ended.

His vision had blurred from the repetitive punches, and he could just barely make out his father standing above him, screaming horrible things and brandishing a fist. He thought, for a moment, that he saw something moving around in the corner kitchen door behind Siger, but then the fist connected with his head again, and as Sherlock was wiping the blood and tears from his eyes with shaky hands, he heard a loud, dull thunk. Siger's face went blank, and he fell to the side, slumped over a nearby chair.

Sherlock looked up, confused, and saw Mrs. Hudson, standing behind his father's unconscious figure, brandishing a frying pan with a fierce look on her face.

And then there were warm arms around his cold, cold figure, and he could feel tears on his face that weren't his own.

"_Sherlock…Oh, Sherlock, dear, what's happened to you now?_"

And just as suddenly the arms were gone and he heard her voice a bit farther away, talking quietly into a phone. "…oh, John dear, please come quickly, I don't know how badly he's hurt…yes, the bastard's out cold on the kitchen floor, and if he wakes up again he'll have more than just my frying pan to meet him…Yes, do hurry…yes, I will…"

Sherlock's eyes drifted shut. John would come soon, and Mrs. Hudson would be in good hands. For now, Sherlock was going to wait in his mind palace, and hopefully be able to fix the damage his father had inflicted on his precious mind and his fragile heart.

…

Mycroft cursed as yet another cab passed him by. For some strange reason, Anthea was not answering her phone. It had never happened in her whole employment with him, not once. He sighed. Of course during the time he needed the car the most it would happen.

Mycroft grumbled to himself as he tried to signal a cab. He didn't have much practice with that certain aspect of life, seeing as he was usually chauffeured everywhere by his personal driver and his blackberry-typing assistant. Sherlock could be in serious trouble, and here he was, not even able to get to him.

Finally, a banged up black cab with a rusty bumper and scratched metal doors drove up to the curb where he stood. "Need a ride, guvna'?" said the man inside, a scruffy individual whose face looked as though it hadn't received a good washing in a year and a day.

Mycroft gulped. "Yes, my good sir." He carefully wiped off the door handle with his handkerchief before opening it to get in. "To 221 Baker Street, please." He added as he tried to get comfortable on the lumpy leather seat.

"Right, that'll be about £40, guv'na!" the man said cheerfully, as the car stuttered and then started up.

Mycroft's eyebrows almost touched his hairline. "My God!" he exclaimed, "That much for a _cab_?"

The driver shrugged. "Gotta pay me and the missus's bills, don't I?"

He gunned the car and Mycroft suddenly found himself wishing that he was back in the restaurant as the cab began to roar down the street to his little brother's rescue.


	7. A Happy Ending

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be right there."

John hung up the phone and, yanking his stethoscope from around his neck, slapped it down on the counter and hurriedly pulled on his coat. Thank God he didn't have any patients at the moment.

He darted out to the waiting room and past Sarah's desk. She stopped him with a "John!"

He turned, impatient. "What is it? I have to go, right now!"

A stormy expression crossed Sarah's face. "John…" she said in a warning voice.

He leaned in close to her and spoke in a low voice, desperate. "Sarah. Please. Sherlock's just been attacked. I have to go and make sure he's alright." His voice broke on the last part. "Please."

Sarah nodded. "Go. Quickly."

John closed his eyes and let out the breath he'd been holding. "Thank you."

He turned for the door and heard Sarah say something. "What?" he asked, turning back, anxious to get going.

Sarah looked up at him. "Nothing. Just…make sure he's okay. And if you need anything…call me."

"Thanks, Sarah."

And with that John Watson was out the door, on his way to make sure his best friend stayed alive.

* * *

John ran up the steps of Baker Street. The door had been wide open; someone had gotten here just moments before him.

He took the stairs two at a time and all but collapsed into the living room. He stood up straighter to see Sherlock, lying on the couch, sipping from a glass of water, his head supported by the Union Jack pillow. Mrs. Hudson was sitting by him, dabbing at a cut on his cheek. He looked up and winced as his head twinged. "Oh, hello, John. What are you doing home so early?"

John stood stock still, not moving an inch. Sherlock frowned. "John? I'm very sorry…Mrs. Hudson wasn't supposed to call you at work. It's my fault, I gave her the number. Or maybe she found it in my phone. Either way, you can't blame her, because…John?"

John dropped all of his stuff; bag, coat, phone; on the floor and lunged for the couch. He collapsed on top of Sherlock and kissed him for all he was worth.

"You…daft…bugger…came…back…here…why…stupid…could'v e been…killed, Sherlock!" he gasped between kisses.

Sherlock pulled back. "So you're not…mad, that I took you away from work?" he asked hesitantly.

John frowned. "God, no, Sherlock! I'm just glad you're alive." He turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Where's Siger?"

Mrs. Hudson got the fiercest look John had ever seen on her face and she laughed, almost maliciously. "Oh, he's out cold on the kitchen floor. A frying pan is the best weapon one can have."

John nodded firmly. "Right. I'm going to go call Greg and…"

"No need, John, I've taken care of that." A posh voice cut through their conversation. "Detective Inspector Lestrade is on his way."

"You know, you're not fooling anyone by calling him 'Detective Inspector', Mycroft." Sherlock's voice drifted up from the couch.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "Whatever are you going on about, Sherlock?" he gestured to Sherlock behind his back and mouthed the word 'concussion' to John.

Sherlock grinned smugly. "The fact that you and Lestrade have been dating for almost two months now."

Mycroft's mouth fell open ever so slightly, but he closed it quickly with a snap. "Sherlock…" he said in a warning voice.

Sherlock waved a hand carelessly around. "Oh, it's fine. John and I have been shagging for longer than _that_."

Mycroft's mouth stayed open this time.

John gave Sherlock a stern glare. _Time to divert the subject_.

He turned to Mycroft. "So…you talked to Greg. What's going to happen with Siger now?"

Mycroft looked coldly at the unmoving body on the kitchen floor. "He'll be tried for child abuse and breaking and entering."

John raised his eyebrows. "Breaking and entering?"

Mycroft smiled unpleasantly. "Technicalities," he said, articulating each syllable.

John looked at him, not quite sure what he meant by that. "Oh. Right. Okay," he nodded.

Mycroft stood up straighter and took a breath. "He will be on trial in a few weeks, during which I will be testifying, and Sherlock as well, if he so chooses. Gregory is sending someone by to pick _that_," he gestured to the shape on the floor, curling his lip, "very soon."

Mycroft walked towards the door. "Have a good day. Sherlock, I will be sending you some of my cases to work on when you're better."

"I'm just fine." Sherlock muttered. "And I don't want to work on _your_ cases." He pretended to observe Mycroft carefully. "Jam donuts go right to the hips, don't they?"

Mycroft looked at him coolly. "Good afternoon, John." he said, and then headed out the door, shutting it gently behind him.

Mrs. Hudson watched as he left. "Nice man, your brother!" she said cheerfully. She picked up her frying pan and headed for the door, opening it and slipping out. "I'll just leave the two of you to it, then!"

The door closed behind her and John and Sherlock were finally alone.

They sat still for some minutes, neither moving. And then suddenly they both moved and locked each other in a tight embrace.

"God, Sherlock, when Mrs. Hudson called…I was so scared. I thought you were going to die...I couldn't live through that, not again."

"I know," Sherlock said. "John, I…I'm so sorry."

John stiffened. "Sorry?" he asked incredulously. "Sherlock, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, understand?"

Sherlock nodded miserably. "I know, but John…it's my fault."

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders. "Sherlock, look at me. Look at me!"

Sherlock looked up. John's eyes bored into him.

"This isn't your fault. Not at all. He abused you, abused your trust and your love. He warped your mind and your heart. He hurt you, Sherlock, and none of this is your fault. Okay?"

Sherlock looked stunned. He nodded. "Okay, John."

John pulled Sherlock back into his arms. The detective wrapped his arms tightly around John's body.

He never wanted to let go again.

_The End_

* * *

_A/N; Well, that's it! This was just a short companion fic to Can You See My Pain. I hope you enjoyed it, and once again I want to thank every single follower, favoriter, reviewer, even just readers; YOU are the reason I do this. Well, that and I love Sherlock. :D_

_Also, many, many, many thanks to Johnlock13 for keeping me going with encouragements, and **especially** her invaluable advice about all things British (because when one is an American who writes at four o clock in the morning, one is bound to make British-word-and-term mistakes :P)_

_Remember, for every review I get, Mycroft gets a piece of cake! Help Mycroft break his diet; leave a review!_

_Ta!_

_-Anonymoustache_


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